His hips began to move—not fast.
Not frantic.
Just deep.
Each thrust was measured, drawn out like a breath too long held. Like every inch of him inside her had weight, intention, memory. His cock slid in slow, slow, dragging her open with the kind of patience that felt more like discipline than mercy. There was no urgency in his rhythm. Just pressure. Claim. A silent kind of ownership being carved into her with every thrust.
Lily's fingers clenched into the sheets beside her hips.
The sound of their bodies was quiet at first—skin brushing skin, the faint slick echo of her wetness as it welcomed him again and again. The mattress creaked under them, soft and rhythmic, a sound that somehow made it feel more real. More dangerous. Like someone could walk in and hear it. Like they were on the edge of something sacred and brutal at once.
Yen didn't grunt. Didn't moan.
Didn't even breathe like a man.
His silence was a wall pressing down on her, every inch of his body focused on hers with terrifying stillness. His face hovered above hers—sharp-jawed, sweat beginning to gather at his brow, lips slightly parted—but he made no sound. Not even a hitch. He wasn't lost in the moment.
He was studying it.
He was consuming her with a kind of silence that felt older than love and colder than lust.
Her legs had curled up around his hips almost on instinct, her ankles loosely locked behind his back. But there was no desperation in the way she held him. No begging. No grasping.
She just stayed open—quiet, pliant, her body an offering that had long since forgotten how to say no.
He moved inside her like this was his right. Like he'd been born to fuck her and anything less than that depth was a betrayal of nature.
She didn't close her eyes.
She watched him.
Even with the shadows veiling parts of his face, he looked devastating. That furrow in his brow like he was solving a problem, that split-second tension in his jaw every time he bottomed out. His lips parted each time he buried himself fully, the faintest pull of air hissing through his teeth—but not a single moan escaped him.
He looked like a man trying to solve a riddle with his body, and her cunt was the question he couldn't stop asking.
Then he shifted.
His hips rolled deeper—lower—grinding into her just right, hitting that spot inside her that made her lashes flutter and her mouth fall open.
She gasped, sharp and breathless.
He heard it.
"Again," he muttered, voice breaking through the thick silence like a spark catching dry wood. Low. Rough. Controlled.
She blinked up at him, dazed.
And then he obeyed his own command.
He pulled out—slow and wet—and then slammed back in.
The force knocked her breath loose.
"There."
She whimpered.
And he did it again.
And again.
Each thrust landing with precision, with weight, with intent to destroy.
Her legs began to tremble. Her stomach coiled. Her breath caught in staggered rhythm with each thrust, as though her lungs were forgetting how to function under the pressure of him.
The sound between them grew louder—lewd, wet, real.
Her pussy gripped him like it didn't know how to let go—like she was made to keep him in and never let him leave.
"Say something," Yen said suddenly, voice jagged, breath warm across her cheek.
Her brows pulled together. "W-what?"
"Anything." He didn't slow. His cock drove into her with harder rhythm now, brutal and unrelenting. "Tell me something real."
"I—I don't know—" she gasped, struggling to form thoughts under the force of him.
"Then lie." His growl was raw now. Not loud. Just tight. "Lie to me like you always do."
That broke something in her chest.
Her lip quivered, a faint tremble chasing her voice. But she didn't tell him to stop. Never told him to stop. Because somewhere beneath the pain, beneath the humiliation, beneath the sick ache of being used—
was the truth that she needed him more than she feared him.
"I…" Her throat clenched around the words. "I love you."
And that—
That made him snap.
Yen's body jerked with something between rage and need. His hands gripped her thighs harder—bruising now—and his thrusts turned savage. Unforgiving. The bedframe groaned violently as the headboard slammed once against the wall. His rhythm turned into punishment.
"Hah." His voice was a hiss, hot against her cheek. "Bullshit."
But he didn't stop.
He pulled her legs up—over his shoulders now—folding her in half like a doll. Fucking down into her. Hard. Deep. Remorseless.
Each stroke crashed into her, pounded the lie into her spine until it felt real.
Her sob tore from her throat, caught between pleasure and pain and something far more dangerous—something hollow and burning.
Her fingers scrambled up, found the headboard, clung to it as her body rocked beneath him.
The sound of the room changed.
The fire crackled. Their skin slapped. Her cries rose. His breath began to catch.
He was breaking.
And her body was close to breaking, too.
He felt it.
"Close?" he asked.
But it wasn't a question. He already knew.
"Yes," she cried, voice cracking. "Yes—yes—"
He leaned down, folding her tighter, mouth brushing her ear.
"Then give it to me."
His hand wrapped gently around her throat—not choking, not harsh. Just reminding her who controlled the air in her lungs. Who she was opening for. Who she couldn't say no to.
She moaned—long, sharp, raw—and then shattered.
Her orgasm hit like a wave too heavy to carry.
Her pussy clamped down, clenching, spasming around his cock, hot and desperate. Her back arched. Her mouth opened—but no sound came. Only the rasp of a breath stolen too fast.
She twitched beneath him, writhing, falling apart with his name caught in her chest but never spoken.
And he didn't let up.
He fucked through it—fucked deeper, rougher—until his hips jerked, cock twitching inside her as his own orgasm ripped through him.
His groan spilled into her neck—raw and feral—as he came. Thick spurts filling her cunt, spilling inside her still-clenching heat.
He didn't pull out.
Not yet.
He stayed pressed to her—chest to chest, breath ragged, skin slick, both their bodies trembling in the aftershock. His forehead rested against her breastbone, damp and heavy, while her fingers curled weakly into the sheets.
For a long time, there was nothing but the soft crackle of dying fire.
His cock throbbed one last time inside her.
Her thighs twitched.
Then—finally—he pulled out.
Slow. Sticky. Wet.
A faint trickle followed him, running down her swollen cunt, sliding across the inside of her thigh.
He didn't speak.
Didn't meet her eyes.
He simply rose—naked, quiet, unbothered—and walked to the window.
The snow had thickened. It blanketed the world in silence. Cold. Unmoving.
His back to her now, arms folded as he looked out over the still world.
Lily remained on the bed.
Legs still parted.
Body aching, leaking, open in every sense of the word.
She breathed like someone who had barely survived something intimate. Something cruel.
And when he finally spoke again, he didn't turn to her.
"Keep saying it," he said quietly. "Whether you love me or hate me, it makes no difference."
No emphasis. No anger.
Just… final.
She didn't answer.
Didn't challenge him.
She simply turned her face into the pillow—
And let the cold in.
She'll always be his.